


I don’t hate you

by Blownwish



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Frotting, Hand Jobs, Jjbek, M/M, it’s just porn, porn based on macherpuppy’s fanart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 03:34:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13402590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blownwish/pseuds/Blownwish
Summary: How could Jean think Otabek would ever hate him?





	I don’t hate you

**Author's Note:**

> I am so blown away by [this](http://macherpuppy.tumblr.com/post/169321048197) art by the incomparable [Macherpuppy](http://macherpuppy.tumblr.com/) that I just had to write this. Please see it if you haven’t. It’s so amazing. 
> 
> beta’d by the lovely [Annabeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/annabeth) who is incomparable, too.

Otabek is at the door and he’s here for Jean. He doesn’t need to knock or say a word. There is just the hallway light shining like a spotlight on Jean as he sits up from the mattress. He’s still in costume.

He never needed to tell Jean to wait for him. He never needed to say a thing. He could just turn his head and Jean would be looking back at him. He can try Jean’s doors and they will all be open.

The mattress is too soft. It dips too much when Otabek puts his knee between Jean’s legs. He combs through his hair. It’s tacky with gel. Jean’s staring up at him with those sad blue eyes, like they’re kids again and Otabek’s still got all the answers in the world. “You came for me.” He’s still wearing the medal around his neck. _That goddamn medal._ That fucking thing — “I’m so sorry, Otabek! You should’ve —“

Jean's mouth is wet. So is his face. Otabek can taste the tears as he presses his open mouth against Jean’s. He can taste the pain when Jean sobs and he hates the sound of it. So he cradles him. Holds all the fragile pieces as Jean shakes. As he falls apart. And then he stops shaking.

++

JJ was the first friend Otabek made in the rink.

It happened in America, but not in Colorado Springs, when they first met. “I’m Jean-Jacques Leroy.” He made those jay signs with his hands. “King JJ.”

“Otabek.”

He didn’t shake Otabek’s hand. These North Americans were obsessed with it, but _King JJ_ didn’t offer his. It made up for the stupid posing. He was a good looking kid, the kind of good looking that loomed a full three centimeters over Otabek with an absurd face that was too handsome, when he closed the distance between them and leaned against the wall between Otabek and the locker room.

“Excuse me.” Otabek walked around _King JJ._ He was wrong, this kid was annoying, and he was _not_ making Otabek’s face turn red when he whistled. Not at all.

Otabek almost pushed through the locker room door when JJ said, “That’s a neat accent. Where’re you from?”

He didn’t assume Russia. “Kazakhstan.” Otabek braced himself when that ridiculously handsome face made a ridiculously handsome _oh_ , and this kid pointed, like every other damn American pointed when he told them. It was always the same. “Don’t say Borat.”

 _”Evgeni Nabokov!”_ Jean beamed and Otabek blinked. “The hockey player?”

“Oh.” Otabek went into the locker room. And of course this kid followed him in. And of course he started changing right away, showing off his body right in front of Otabek.

He had definition. And his abs — Otabek had to stop looking. Oh, and the briefs. Bright red boxer briefs, melded to a tight — and hard, thick, _meaty_ —

“Hey! You okay, man?”

For a moment Otabek thought he was going to have a heart attack and die at fifteen. He was staring in the locker room and everyone else had stopped just so they could see his red face.

++

Otabek pulls back. Jean’s eyes are dull. His lips move but he’s not saying anything. Then he presses his hand under Otabek’s costume shirt. He touches Otabek’s nipple. He whimpers. “I’m sorry.”

He knows. He knows and he wishes he would stop saying it.

Jean looks up at him as he lowers his head. Keeps staring into Otabek’s eyes as he opens his mouth. And tugs at the shirt until Otabek’s nipple is just a breath away from Jean's tongue.

It’s warm. He’s warm. Otabek breaks eye contact and shivers.

“Sorry.” Jean says _again_ , right before he sucks Otabek’s nipple into his mouth. And it’s so - but _no!_

Otabek groans. “Don’t say sorr -“

“Otabek!” His back hits the mattress and Jean blots out the ceiling. Blots out everything with a sloppy open mouth with too much tongue and desperation and his legs tangle around Otabek’s and his hands push Otabek’s shirt down. Then slide over Otabek’s skin with shaking, nervous fingers. He pulls back. “Otabek…” His kisses are softer. His voice is softer. His hands are still shaking as his teeth nip at Otabek’s jaw. At Otabek’s ear. “Otabek?”

He hears so many questions in his name. Feels so much warmth in his breath. In him - he’s so warm. So warm, like he’s going to burn up in that horrible purple costume.

Otabek works the zipper down and Jean shakes the sleeves off. Lets Otabek peel the it down as Jean nips at his ear again. His skin is always so smooth. Not a hair, not a blemish. But he’s shaking, still shaking. Otabek draws a line down the column of his spine; Jean gasps in his ear as Otabek’s finger dips down, under the elastic of his strap.

Jean falls into the mattress and this time he brings Otabek down with him. He arches his back as Otabek reaches down, gripping his costume as Jeans hands fall back, as if he’s giving up.

“Are you mad at me?”

It’s like Jean needs someone to be mad at him.

++

Another year with that crazy kid up his butt made Otabek’s stomach turn. He needed to focus, to train, to become a champion. King JJ was too loud, too in-your-face, too _much_ when he barged into Otabek’s room at midnight, talking nonstop about - what else? - _JJ Style_.

He almost pulled out of training in Detroit when he saw Jean’s name on the roster. But he didn’t. Coach Cialdini was the best when it came to working with non-ballet dance techniques; Otabek needed to be there. But he sure as hell didn’t want to share a room with the walking disaster that was King JJ, who was on the top bunk Otabek had his eye on.

“But we had so much fun together back in Colorado. Remember?”

If being stalked during morning runs was fun. If barging into his dorm room - even when Otabek was getting dressed - was fun. If getting matching bears and giving Otabek the one named “King JJ,” so everyone could think they were boyfriends, was fun. If Jean inviting himself to everywhere Otabek went was fun.

Otabek sighed. “Why don’t you just keep this room and I’ll get another one?” Jean's smile was still there. But the corner of his mouth shook, just a little. Shit! Not that. Not again. “Okay, you can stay. But that’s my bunk.”

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” Jean hopped down and hugged him - ugh! He must’ve grown over the summer. He was even bigger. Even stronger. He was warm, though. And he smelled so good. Was he wearing cologne? “Oh, you’re the best, my dude. My very best!”

Otabek pushed him away. He hid his face. Jean always made it turn red. “And none of that shit, okay?” He ran a hand through his hair and counted to ten, which he hadn’t had to since the last time he saw this kid. “Just, be cool? Can you do that?”

Jean nodded way too much for anyone who knew what the word meant. And he wasn’t cool. Not at all.

Jean wanted to partner up with Otabek for stretches and exercises. “But we don’t need partners.” Otabek only said this for the hundredth time.

“Sure you do! Makes it more fun!” He was following Otabek on a jog with what could only be classified as a trot. The kid bounced on the balls of his feet. It was bizarre.

Otabek just wanted to get some fresh air to clear his head after an hour of gym, JJ Style. No, he wasn’t hard to look at, even if he flexed his pecs and flashed those finger signs every time he walked by the wall mirror. And sure, working out with Jean pushed Otabek. Jean was a beast when it came to push ups, sit ups and squats. But he was so… loud.

“Woo! Let’s get that endorphin fix!” He was still _bouncing_. “One heckuva high!”

And he was even worse on the ice. “Come on, Golden Boy! Quad Salchow! Let’s go!” They’d just stepped on to the ice and Jean was already racing around. And sure enough, he jumped like a spring and there it was: a picture perfect Quad Salchow.

Coach Cialdini put his hand on Otabek’s shoulder. “Focusd on those stiff, choppy movements for now. Baby steps. You’ll get there.” Coach Cialdini squeezed his shoulder.

Otabek watched Jean land another Quad Salchow as he just stood there. And he stayed there as the others got on the ice.

“What’s wrong?” Jean stopped and threw his arm around him. “What’d he tell you?”

The same thing every other coach said: do what you can and aim for mediocre. Otabek looked at Jean, really looked at him. “Coach Johnson didn’t teach you that.”

He grinned. “Nope. No one would. So I figured it out, myself.” If Otabek didn’t know better, he’d suspect Jean was a liar. But Jean didn’t lie. “You want me to show you?”

“Fuck, yes.” Otabek grinned right back.

Jean flashed his double jay sign and Otabek didn’t mind one bit.

++

Jean watching him with tired, cried out eyes as Otabek slides down. As he bends his head and bites the damn medal. Jean whimpers when Otabek glares back at him with the thing in his mouth. “You deserved it.”

He sits up. He pulls the dance cup off the rest of that purple thing, he tosses it over his shoulder and he allows himself to look at Jean. He’s naked, vulnerable, _beautiful_ — and he would be so easy to hurt. Otabek shakes his head when Jean tries to take the medal off. “Didn’t come here for that.” No, he leans down and he cups Jean’s cheek. He looks into those sad eyes. “Came for this.”

Came for the soft, soft sigh Otabek felt rumbling deep in Jean’s chest. Came for the soft, soft feel of Jean’s wet lips. “Just don’t hate me,” Jean whispers. “As long as you don’t hate me.”

Jean’s hands are sliding over Otabek’s ass and he is ready to get his cock out of this cup and - god! - it feels so good. Jean feels so good. Their sweat slicks up the friction as Otabek thrusts his dick against Jean’s. And Jean moans. And Jean squeezes his ass, and then Jean reaches between them.

Otabek gasps. “Can’t - “ he’s so hard, and Jean is biting at his lip, is pumping them both so fast, is hungry for it “ - can’t hate you!”

“I love you!” Jean sobs. His hand stops. He stops. He sobs again, and then his mouth is back on Otabek’s nipple, sucking so deep.

And Otabek can feel the hot sticky mess between them. He can feel the slack in Jean’s body as he thrusts and thrusts. Jean’s arms wrap around him. Jean holds him close. He hums as Otabek lifts his head.

Everything pours out of him as he whispers one name: _Jean_.

++

Jean was the first friend Otabek made in the rink, and he was leaving.

“Don’t cry.” Otabek sat on the lower bunk with Jean. Put his arm around him and sighed. That never helped.

Jean wiped his nose and took a deep breath. “Yeah. I need to get used to it.” He even smiled. Even threw up the stupid double jay signs. “Coaches can’t handle this JJ Style.” But he was still crying.

“Need help?” Packing was never easy, and short notice was even worse. “I don’t mind.”

Jean stood up like a shot. “Nope. I got this.” He swung his arms around. Looked up at the ceiling and let out a long breath. “I just — it’s mid-season. Where am I going to go?”

There was a picture on Jean’s phone. A picture of his parents standing next to two gold medals mounted over a fireplace. “Your parents.” It seemed so obvious. “Jean, why don’t you just ask your parents to train you?”

He turned around, quickly. He blinked, slowly. He opened his mouth. He closed it. Then the tears gleamed as Jean beamed and pulled Otabek out of the bed. “Freakin’ genius! Oh my god!”

Otabek didn’t get a chance to feel the shock of hearing Jean come so close to swearing. He was feeling the shock of Jean pressing his mouth against his. His clumsy, puckered mouth, just landing smack dab against Otabek’s.

“Oh!” Jean was turning bright red, looking at the floor. And he was pulling away. Otabek realized he didn’t _want_ Jean to pull away. He wanted to keep feeling his arms around him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean - “

He wanted to tip Jean’s face down and show him how to kiss, the right way. “It’s fine.” Otabek turned away, instead.

They spent the next half hour gathering clothes, shoes, all of Jean’s skin care crap, and his gear. Neither said much. Neither looked at the other at all. But at least Jean wasn’t crying.

Or so Otabek thought.

“Well, that’s it.” Jean stood next to three suitcases with a tear stained face. “Sorry I’m such a disaster. Making you put up with all my bs.” He held out his hand. “You’re a good friend, Otabek Altin.” He was holding his bear. The one Jean named Otabek.

Otabek wished he didn’t throw his bear away. “Could’ve been better,” said Otabek.

Jean’s hand reached for him, for a moment. And then it fell. It made something twist inside of him.

“Don’t do that,” Otabek whispered. He grabbed Jean’s hand. He pulled Jean down and he looked that crazy, sad, beautiful idiot right in the eye. “Don’t you ever give up, or I will kick your ass. Understand me, Leroy?” And then Otabek did something crazy — he kissed Jean.

And Jean let him.

He went with Jean to the airport, and Jean let him. Jean let Otabek hold his hand as they waited for the plane that would take Jean away and make the Detroit a JJ Style-free environment, clean and stable, quiet and _boring_.

“Hey, listen.” Jean was staring at the window. At the airplanes. At the clouded sky. “If this works out, I want you to come up to Montreal, too. And stay with us.”

No one ever invited Otabek to live with them. “I don’t know.”

Jean’s hand squeezed his. ”I can’t do this without my friend.”

Otabek looked into his eyes. Maybe that was the color of the sky in Montreal? Maybe.

++

Jean hands him a wet towel as he wipes his own belly off. He’s finally taken off the medal. He’s finally stopped looking like a kicked puppy. He’s finally smiling again, walking around as naked as the day he was born, just like he always does after they do this.

“So, how you feeling about Four Continents?” Jean’s reaching for the small talk. Otabek shrugs and he reaches for the mini fridge beers instead. “Hey, they got some of the good stuff.” He’s popping open two Molsons.

“You know, Jean.” He wants to say something, he just doesn’t know how to say it.

He looks up. He smiles as if this is just some easy going post-hookup bullshit. “I know, what?”

Otabek takes the beer. He holds it up. He nods. “You know… _I don’t hate you._ ”

Jean looks away. “Thanks, man.” It’s the same voice he heard when Jean said _I love you_ , and Otabek takes a long pull from the bottle.

Then the realization hits Otabek like a ton of bricks. He knows what he wanted to say.

++

Otabek wasn’t expecting Jean’s entire family to pick him up from the airport. He wasn’t expecting the Leroy’s to take him out for donuts and coffee - he hadn’t had donuts in forever - and he did not expect them to buy and install a bunk bed in Jean’s room.

It was plastered with posters of figure skaters and hockey players. Otabek stopped in front of one poster and pointed. “Evgeni Nabokov.”

Jean held out a bear, just like the one he got Otabek, back in Detroit. “Thank you for coming.” His face was bright red.

Otabek took the bear. His face was turning red, too. “Thank you for having me.”

Jean leaned against the door. He touched the bear in Otabek’s arms. “For you? My door is always open.” Then his hand was on his shoulder. It felt so warm, and he looked so happy.

Otabek didn’t realize he was pulling Jean’s head down. He didn’t realize he was pressing his lips against his. He didn’t realize how badly he wanted to kiss him, again.  

Until he did. 


End file.
